Like Lightning
by Aggie2011
Summary: Lightning can strike in many ways. It can destroy. It can alter. It can simply light up the world. But one thing is certain...lightning always leaves its mark. Aramis reflects on lightning while caught out in a storm. Entry into April's "Fete des Mousquetaires Challenge" *no slash*pre-series*


_Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)_

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hello again my friends! This is my entry for the April Fete des Mousquetaires challenge which was the French phrase "Coup de Foudre" which literally means 'a strike of lightning'. This, of course, can be taken all sorts of directions from a literal lightning strike to love at first sight or simply a life altering event. You'll have to read on to see what direction I took it :D_

 _As with last month's entry, this fits into a greater universe I'm crafting for our dear Musketeers. So there are hints to backstory and such that will unfold throughout that universe. My lovely beta and I are about halfway through the edits for the huge multichapter fic that will introduce that universe properly._

 _Speaking of my beta, special thanks to the wonderful_ **Arlothia** _for her time and patience!_

 _To my VPU readers from the Avengers 'verse, I'm working on a one shot for you guys too and hope to have it ready soon and thanks for crossing over to this universe with me!_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Personal experience is the lightning of the soul; it transforms the heart in ways that leave the brain behind.  
_ _ **Susan Cheever**_

* * *

It was going to rain. Even if the sky hadn't been darkening by the moment, Aramis had been caught in enough rain showers to know the signs of its impending arrival.

And wasn't _that_ just going to be a perfect addition to this already dreadful day.

He shifted in his saddle and reached to tug irritably at his hat, forcing it lower over his brow. He pressed his boots into his horse's flanks, urging him to move faster. The animal, called Red for his rusty color, was not his usual mount and lacked the speed, grace, and endurance he'd become accustomed to with Esmé. But with her unavailable, and most of the normal Garrison mounts out with other Musketeers, Red had been all that was available. After a long day on the road, the aging horse was tiring and even Aramis' gentle urging had failed to inspire him to pick up the pace.

"You _want_ to get caught in the storm, don't you?" Aramis accused waspishly when another nudge with his boots yielded no results.

The horse snorted his own irritation and jerked moodily at his reins.

Aramis opened his mouth to scold the beast, but ended up just letting out a deep, weary sigh.

"I am sorry, my friend," he offered in a gentler tone. "I'm usually much better company than this."

Red snorted again and tossed a short, miffed look over his shoulder at Aramis before continuing their lagging pace.

It seemed he was out of favor with the _horse_ as well. Apparently, he was doomed to be a disappointment to everyone today. Or perhaps everyone was a disappointment to _him._ Given the way he'd left things with Athos and Porthos, it was more likely a healthy dose of both.

He shifted in the saddle again, scowling as he thought over why he was out here, delivering a missive of such low importance that it was a task more suited for a recruit than the most seasoned Musketeer in the regiment. He'd been so _furious_ , though, and in such desperate need of space from the two objects of his irritation that he'd taken whatever mission out of the city Treville had to offer.

But nearly an entire day on his own had done little to calm his temper or dampen the memories of the events that had brought him here.

"Perhaps if I explained," he offered to the horse, "you might be more inclined to take my side in this. Goodness knows I could use an ally. You see, it began with Porthos and Esmé…."

* * *

 _The Previous Evening  
_ _The Garrison Stable_

* * *

Aramis hefted a fresh bucket of water into Esme's stall – temporary quarters that kept her well away from the rest of the Garrison horses – and smiled when she immediately made her way over to take a drink.

" _Esa es mi chica," (That's my girl)_ he murmured as he reached to scratch behind her ears.

Her fever was gone, but the cough that had settled in worried him. The boy that cared for the Garrison horses, Claude, had been the one tending to her the most throughout her illness. Aramis had tried to be with her as much as possible, but he couldn't ignore his duties.

"She's on th' mend," Claude commented as he was leaning over the stall door. "Been eatin' better and th' cough sounds better than it did."

"You've done well caring for her," Aramis praised. "She seems to have grown fond of you."

Claude smiled brightly. Everyone knew Esmé tolerated no one but Aramis and it was a rare thing when she deigned to give consideration to anyone else.

"'Mis, you in here?" a booming voice questioned from the front of the stables.

Aramis gave Esmé one last scratch and slid out of the stall when Claude pulled the door open for him. He squeezed the boy's shoulder in thanks and moved to meet Porthos as the large man strode down the row of stalls.

"Might have known," Porthos sighed, gaze flitting over Aramis' shoulder to Esmé's stall. "She any better?"

"On the mend, it seems," Aramis replied with a relieved smile.

Porthos blew out a breath as well and smiled.

"Good, then you can come out with Athos and me, have some supper and maybe not sleep in the barn for the first time in days."

Aramis hesitated, looking over his shoulder to where Claude was softly murmuring to Esmé. As if sensing his gaze, Esmé looked towards him and shook her head with a blustering sound.

"Not tonight," Aramis decided, looking back at Porthos. "She still needs me."

Disappointment slid through Porthos' gaze.

"You said she was on th' mend."

"Even so." Aramis shrugged a shoulder. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"That's what you said yesterday," Porthos accused. "And the day before that. You've been shut away with her for almost a week."

"She's been sick."

"And she's doing _better_ ," Porthos pointed out.

Aramis shook his head.

"I can't leave her yet."

He knew it was perhaps a bit irrational, especially given her improved condition. But he couldn't help the lingering worry that had hounded him since she'd taken ill. Worry that Esmé's simple cold would spiral into something worse, something not so easily recovered from.

Then there was _that_ day and the unforgiving way it continued to march closer, no matter how he sometimes wished for time to stand still. Tomorrow would come whether he was prepared for it or not. It wasn't even that the day had meant so terribly much in the larger scheme of things. It meant little to anyone else, less than that even. It was _who_ the day reminded him of. _That_ was the problem. No one else would understand or even want to.

It all just left him feeling tired and very alone.

Porthos rubbed at his eyes in agitation, sighing deeply.

"Bloody hell, Aramis, she's just a horse!"

Aramis snapped his gaze up to glare at the larger man. _Just a horse?_ Surely Porthos knew better than that. Surely Porthos _understood_ what Esmé meant to him. She wasn't _just_ a horse. She was _his_ horse. She had been his horse since she was a baby. She'd been his horse for longer than Porthos had even been a Musketeer.

 _Just a horse?_

He knew Porthos didn't know the full weight of what Aramis was shouldering at the moment, but to say such a thing? About Emsé?

His gaze must have clearly shown his anger and hurt over the words because the frustration in Porthos' gaze gave way to immediate regret.

"Aramis," Porthos held up a calming hand, his voice softening in apology, "I only meant…"

"I think your meaning was quite clear," Aramis interrupted sharply. There was a frustrating prickling at the corner of his eyes, but he chose to ignore that in favor of the tingling spark of his temper threatening to catch and turn to a flame. "If a night at the tavern is so important to you, by all means, don't let me and a mere _horse_ delay you any longer."

"'Mis…" Porthos tried again, but Aramis was already turning to go back towards Esmé.

Porthos reached out and caught his arm. One day, Aramis hoped he would get a full handle on his battle-honed reflexes once again. But less than a year had passed since Savoy and that experience had sharpened something in him. It had tuned his defensive instincts to a level that overrode thought.

So even though he knew it was Porthos, even though he _knew_ he had nothing to fear from his brother, Aramis still turned sharply, ripping his arm free of the gentle grip and sending a hard shove into Porthos' chest with his other hand.

Porthos held up his hands in deference, expression a painful mixture of hurt and understanding.

"'Mis," he tried once more.

But Aramis shook his head, embarrassed now and even more frustrated.

"Just _go_ , Porthos," he snapped.

Biting his lip in indecision, Porthos finally dipped his head once and retreated.

In a moment too reminiscent of those early days after Savoy, Aramis found himself with warring feelings. Relief that Porthos had surrendered and would leave him be. But at the same time there lingered a deep sense of disappointment that his brother had given in so easily…and a longing for him to stay.

* * *

 _Present Time  
_ _The Road to Paris_

* * *

Aramis sighed and looked up at the darkening sky.

"You've met Esmé," he commented to Red. "Could it ever be said that she's _'just a horse'_? Hmm? I didn't think so."

Red snorted in disinterest and continued plodding along. The first fat rain drop landed on the back of Aramis' hand and he scowled. A moment later the heavens opened completely.

 _Wonderful._

With a heavy sigh, he continued his story, no matter how indifferent his audience appeared. Perhaps in its telling he would find some clarity.

"If it had stopped there, then perhaps we wouldn't be here now. But that, my friend, was only the beginning."

* * *

 _Early That Morning  
_ _Musketeer Barracks_

* * *

Aramis wearily threaded his hands up through his hair. With his elbows braced on his knees, he left his head resting in his hands and took a moment to allow his eyes to close.

The early dawn sun was just starting to peek through the one corner of the window that wasn't covered by a sloppily hung spare shirt – the only type of drape they had taken the time to put up. Aramis knew any chance at sleep had passed.

He had not planned to spend his evening in _comfort_ exactly. Sleeping on a pile of hay in Esmé's stall was certainly not the best accommodations he'd ever had, but neither was it the worst. He had managed over the past several nights and had been fully prepared to do so again.

Then the messenger had arrived with word of Athos, drunk beyond the point of reason and in need of someone to collect him.

Aramis had spent a few fuming moments wondering _where_ Porthos was since the two had supposedly been dining together. But in the end, had gone to the tavern, located Athos in the darkest corner, all but carried him back to the Garrison, and put him to bed.

The remainder of the night had passed slowly as he relentlessly monitored Athos' condition. The risks of overindulgence, especially to the extreme Athos took it, were serious and could be deadly if ignored. And even had he not benefited from Henri's tutelage in such things, Aramis had had more than enough experience tending to Marsac in similar circumstances.

Aramis rubbed roughly at his tired eyes, forcibly banishing the memories of his once-brother. Marsac was rarely far from his mind most days, but in the long months since Savoy, his comrade had stopped constantly haunting his thoughts. But over the past few days, as today had drawn closer, Marsac had been on his mind with increasing frequency.

Athos shifted on his narrow bunk, the third such bed squeezed into this bunkroom so that all three of them could have common quarters. Aramis drew his head back up and watched him for a moment, waiting to be sure Athos was settled before leaning back in the chair he'd pulled close to the bed.

How often had he performed a vigil just like this for Marsac? Too often to really count. But every year on this day for certain.

It was Marsac's birthday after all. And though his old friend had hardly needed an excuse to drink to excess, he had taken particular pleasure in overdoing it on his birthday. Aramis had never held it against him, but _he_ had always spent Marsac's birthday just like this, ensuring his brother survived until morning muster.

Athos groaned and shifted with more purpose, drawing Aramis' attention back to the present moment.

"Athos?" Aramis called softly as he leaned forward.

Icy blue eyes peered irritably at him from beneath tangled brown hair as Athos slowly pushed himself up to a seated position.

Before they could do more than look at each other, the door to their shared quarters opened and Porthos strode in, looking a bit tired but very pleased with himself.

Athos grimaced, turning away from the sudden influx of morning light. Aramis just leaned back in his chair and regarded Porthos wearily.

Porthos dropped his weapons belt on his own bunk and frowned at Aramis.

"You look terrible," the larger man commented.

"Yes, well, I've been up all night," Aramis replied with a vague wave of his hand in Athos' direction.

Athos glared at him. He was always a bit irritable after the rougher nights and Aramis knew his tone likely hadn't helped.

"By your own choice," the swordsman countered gruffly.

Aramis arched a brow at him, feeling his own irritation rise dangerously.

"Hardly. Unless you _intended_ to spend the night drowning in your own vomit. If that's the case, then you have my apologies for ruining your well laid plans."

Perhaps it was his exhaustion speaking, or the lingering worry over Esmé, or maybe the always painful memories of Marsac that were lingering too close to the surface today, but Aramis could feel his temper simmering dangerously beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to fully ignite.

"Aramis," Porthos intoned in warning.

"And where were _you_?" Aramis turned his attention to the larger man and crossed his arms over his chest. "I thought you two were there together. You know better than to leave him when he gets in that type of mood."

"I'm not a child in need of coddling," Athos spoke up as he staggered from his bunk.

Aramis chuckled bitterly.

"Yes well, you nearly found yourself face down in the gutter, would have if the tavern owner hadn't known you."

"Aramis, that's enough," Porthos stepped up next to them, lightly pushing them apart.

Aramis hadn't even realized he'd stepped toe-to-toe with his unstable brother. But he had. Worse, he'd squared his shoulders and clenched his fists as if he meant to _fight_ him. His temper, likened once to a coiled snake, had struck.

"It _is_ enough!" he agreed sharply. "I've spent _enough_ time looking after drunks who can't be bothered to do it for themselves. If you're so intent on killing yourself, perhaps next time I'll _let you_."

A hard shove put Aramis' back sharply against the door. Porthos' dark eyes bored into his and the larger man's palm pressed firmly against his sternum. Over Porthos' shoulder, Athos was staring at him in surprise, and in that moment Aramis wished he hadn't come to know the swordsman quite so well. Because hidden beneath the surprise, Aramis could see the hurt.

A tingling of regret bubbled up in Aramis' chest.

"That's enough," Porthos repeated firmly. "He's not Marsac. He's not the one you picked up for all those years. You're holding a history that's not his against him and it stops now."

Something sharp twisted in Aramis' gut at the mention of Marsac's name. As if the two were tethered together, all the pain and darkness he still carried from Savoy came surging to the surface.

He pushed hard against Porthos, startling the other Musketeer back a few paces.

" _Don't_ ," he warned lowly.

"Don't what?" Porthos challenged. "Make you see the truth? Make you see that you're overreacting and that your _brother_ deserves better from you?"

Aramis knew he was right. He knew Athos deserved better from him. But that was what Aramis _did_. He let his brothers down. It was what he had done in Savoy. It was what he had done with Marsac. And now, he had done it with Athos. It was only a matter of time before he disappointed Porthos too.

But a selfish, angry part of him was suddenly _furious_.

Because maybe _he_ wasn't the only disappointment.

In his anger, words usually so easy for him to find eluded him. So without saying anything, he pushed past Porthos, retrieved his doublet and weapons belt from his bed, and left.

* * *

 _Present Time  
_ _The Road to Paris_

* * *

Aramis tilted his head forward and watched the collected water from his hat pour out.

"I went straight to Treville and asked for a mission, any mission, to get me away from the Garrison. I left before either had a chance to even approach."

He sighed.

"They don't know that today is Marsac's birthday," he admitted to Red. "How would they?"

They would have no reason to suspect the tumultuous emotions and memories this day caused for him. How would they know that with the thoughts of Marsac brought on by this day came also those too-fresh memories of Savoy? Aramis had been teetering on an edge and, without meaning to, his brothers had pushed him over it.

Porthos had been right. He had lashed out at Athos for a history that wasn't his.

Athos wasn't Marsac.

They were different men, had lived different lives. Marsac would drink because he enjoyed it, because he had little care for the chaos he often left in his wake or the strain it put on Aramis to clean up after him.

Athos was different. There was a weight to Athos' actions, a darkness that lingered below the surface. Something had happened to him, something terrible, something that had left a mark on his soul. He had never spoken of it, but Aramis could clearly see the shadow it cast.

The regret and sorrow over the bitter words he'd spoken chased away the last bits of his lingering anger.

"I should apologize," he decided out loud.

Red snorted and shifted anxiously.

A moment later lightning split the sky a distance ahead of them and thunder rumbled loudly on its heels. Red took a few anxious, frightened steps to the side and whinnied loudly.

"Perhaps we should find shelter to wait this out," Aramis suggested, casting about in his mind for nearby options. There was a farm less than a quarter mile ahead. The accompanying barn should do the trick. He urged Red forward just as another flash of lightning cracked through the air.

Only this time it exploded from the sky and struck a tree not far ahead of them.

Aramis could only stare with wide eyes as the tree cracked and groaned, tipping slowly and then falling heavily onto the road.

Red reared up in panic.

Aramis scrambled to hold fast and barely managed it as Red stamped back down onto all fours. But then the following thunder made the very air around them tremble and Red reared back again.

Aramis could only shout in surprise as he slid gracelessly from the rain-slick saddle.

He hit the ground hard on his shoulder. He had just enough time to feel the sharp pain of the joint being forced out of place before the rest of his body landed and his head caught the sharp edge of a rock.

The rumbling of panicked hoof beats as Red sprinted away was the last thing Aramis heard as consciousness faded sharply to darkness.

* * *

Porthos paced under the cover the upper balcony provided.

"He'll seek shelter," Athos pointed out. The swordsman was very purposefully tending to the blade of his rapier. He had nearly finished and had worked with precise, efficient movements. He performed the action with the same skill that Porthos had always admired in Aramis. But where Athos set out to start and complete the task as quickly as possible, Aramis always took his time, basking in the process.

"Normally, I would agree with you," Porthos replied. "But the mood he was in?" Porthos shook his head. Aramis was never one to think of his own well-being on a _good_ day. "I never should have let him leave alone."

"He didn't give us a choice in the matter," Athos reasoned.

"I shouldn't have brought up Marsac," Porthos lamented as if Athos hadn't spoken. "I didn't realize what today was. He never mentioned it"

"I don't think anybody knew but Aramis and the captain," Athos pointed out quietly.

Porthos sighed deeply and continued pacing. After Aramis had disappeared on them, they had gone to Treville. The following revelation that today was Marsac's birthday had been shocking. But it had also made sense of Aramis' dangerous temperament. Anything concerning Marsac was still precarious ground for the marksman; perhaps always would be.

"What did you mean," Athos asked suddenly, "when you said he was holding a history that wasn't mine against me?"

Porthos glanced over his shoulder at his brother and hesitated. But with another sigh he decided this was something better explained than hidden.

"I didn't know Marsac long, but even in the short time I was here before Savoy, two things became clear. First, Marsac enjoyed his drink and had little care for the trouble he found when he got too deep in his cups. Second, Aramis was usually there to get him _out_ of that trouble. I think on top of everything else, with Esmé and Marsac's birthday…it was just too much."

Athos' expression was unreadable and he offered no response but a slight nod of acknowledgement. Porthos huffed another sigh and continued pacing. Lightning cracked across the sky and a loud rumbling of thunder followed a moment later.

Porthos chewed his lip and glanced at the stable, fighting against the urge to run there and saddle a horse. Surely Aramis had sought shelter. Riding out in search of him was a fruitless, paranoid idea.

"Perhaps," Athos spoke again, "having horses prepared would not be out of order."

Porthos turned to look at him.

"Never know when we might be needed," he agreed.

Without another word, they jogged through the rain across to the stable. The moment they set foot inside, Porthos heard her.

Esmé.

Claude was trying to soothe her, but despite his best efforts she was whinnying anxiously in her distant stall, loud enough that Porthos heard her over the rain. Without realizing he'd even been moving, Porthos found himself running quickly towards her.

"She won't settle," Claude told him breathlessly. "The storm's got her all out of sorts."

Porthos peered into the stall and watched Esmé move around the small space with agitated, jerky movements.

"Esmé," he called gently, holding out a hand.

The horse threw her head, casting a glance in his direction. Then, with apparent reluctance, she moved to nuzzle her nose against his hand. She whinnied anxiously again, seemingly trying to tell him something with her intelligent gaze.

Porthos felt his heart start to pound.

Esmé wasn't one to be spooked by a storm. He had seen her weather one without an inkling of upset many times. Perhaps her illness was playing into it, but an instinct told Porthos that wasn't the case. If there was ever a creature to be trusted to just _know_ when Aramis was in trouble, it was Esmé. It had happened before after all...

"Something's wrong," Athos realized.

"We need to go," Porthos agreed, " _now_."

* * *

Aramis groaned, rolling onto his side to escape the splattering of water raining down on his face. He forced an arm under his torso – he couldn't seem to convince his right arm to move – and pushed himself up a bit, blinking dazedly down at the muddy road. A frown of confusion clouded his expression as he noticed a swirling of bright red mixing with the brown.

 _Blood._

 _His blood?_

A sharp pain in his head confirmed it even as his insides twisted in response. He had never taken head injuries well, or rather his _stomach_ hadn't. He blinked again and tried to fight off the nausea rolling through him. Lightning lit up the sky above him just as his stomach fully rebelled and he forcefully expelled whatever was left of his lunch.

With another groan he rolled onto his back once again, blinking up at the falling rain as he tried to work out what exactly had befallen him.

He watched the sky light up with another burst of lightning and listened a few moments later as thunder rumbled in response.

He remembered then, the falling tree and Red's answering panic.

Marshalling his strength, he levered himself up to sitting, grimacing as his shoulder flared in pain. He gripped the injured joint with his good hand and half-stumbled to his feet.

A glance around confirmed what he'd already feared. Red was nowhere to be seen. The frightened animal had likely run the entire way back to Paris and to the safety of the Garrison.

"Wonderful," he muttered, casting a glance around for his hat. It wasn't far, half in a puddle with its poor feather wilted to all but nothing. He retrieved it carefully, wary of upsetting the tenuous peace he had with his stomach. A gentle prodding of the tender place on his head revealed the broken skin was just above his brow and so he felt confident that wearing the hat would cause no further pain.

Reoutfitted now, he turned to face the road back to Paris.

The downed tree didn't look quite so large now that it wasn't falling dramatically into his path. In the end, he was able to simply walk around it and continue on, slogging through the mud and rain back towards home.

As he walked he wished for Esmé. Not just to save him the long, slow journey either. His beloved horse had never in their years together thrown him from her saddle. Not in the face of muskets, or explosions, or nature, or her own fear. It was a fact that allowed him the freedom to ride without holding the reins if needed, freeing both hands to fire his pistols. He knew she would never let him fall.

He wondered if she was acting up now, tuned as she was to his well-being. Porthos had told him how Esmé had been inconsolable after the attack in Savoy. She had known somehow that he had been in grave danger. Perhaps today she would feel that same foreboding. He could only hope that she did. He could only hope that Porthos or Athos would notice her behavior, realize that something was wrong.

He could imagine their reactions when he told them what had happened.

" _Lightning?"_ Porthos would say. _"Can't even let you take a ride alone without worrying nature will try to harm you, eh?"_ "

Athos, of course, would likely keep whatever comments he had to himself. But he would raise his brows and give Aramis that _look_ , the one that asked _'How have you survived this long without us, given your constant attraction for trouble?'_

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he hadn't counted on anyone else to truly worry about him or help him out of the trouble he always seemed to find himself in. Well, other than Treville, but that time had passed with Savoy.

Aramis had always been a brother to every man who walked through the Garrison's gate, but hadn't truly allowed any of them the opportunity to be a brother to him in return.

None save Marsac. And in the end that brotherhood had not been enough to save either of them in Savoy.

No, what saved Aramis had been Porthos.

Their friendship had been its own strike of lightning. A bond had ignited between them from the moment they met, a kinship struck suddenly and without warning that had grown strong enough to withstand the dark shadows of Savoy.

Just as lightning was powerful, life altering, and lit up the world, so had Porthos' arrival affected him.

* * *

 _March 1625  
_ _Musketeer Garrison_

* * *

Aramis, armed with a sword in each hand, nodded for his opponents to attack. Three of his fellow Musketeers moved in immediately, brandishing their own weapons with hard won skill. It took much of Aramis' own considerable skill to fend them off.

They had only been engaged in battle for a few minutes when horses at the gate drew one of his opponent's attention from the sparring session. Aramis, never one to waste an open opportunity, disarmed him quickly. Turning his focus onto the two remaining, he only registered Treville's approach in a distant part of his mind.

It took him several minutes and by the end of it he was sweating through his shirt despite the cooler temperatures. But he disarmed his remaining opponents with a wide smile on his face.

"As always, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure," he teased with a flourishing bow. The three defeated Musketeers laughed in response.

"One day," Cornet pointed a finger at him, "we'll find a way to beat you. Curse Thierry for teaching you to fight with two swords." The older man laughed to take any heat out of the words and shuffled away with the others.

Aramis turned to face the captain and smiled brightly when he realized Treville was not alone.

"Is this him, then?" he asked merrily as he approached them.

The tall, dark man next to Treville was staring at him with something akin to awe in his dark eyes, but blinked it away as Aramis drew nearer.

"This is Porthos, the recruit from the infantry I told you about," Treville replied with a sharp nod. "You'll see to his training," he ordered briskly. He waited a beat for Aramis to nod agreeably before leaving them alone.

Aramis smiled at the newly commissioned man before him.

"I am Aramis, of the King's Musketeers, at your service," he greeted with a vaguely dramatic bow of his head. He kept his eyes up, though, to gauge the man's reaction.

The smallest of smiles pulled at the dark man's mouth.

"Porthos," he replied simply.

Aramis met the new Musketeer's gaze and felt something spark in his chest, a warmth and familiarity he had long been without. There was something about this man, something Aramis could not put to words. Aramis felt inexplicably as if he had known Porthos all his life. It was odd, to feel such a bond so suddenly. He had not felt so easily connected to another person since his mother, many years ago.

"Porthos," he smiled widely again and clapped the larger man on the shoulder, "welcome to the finest brotherhood you will ever know. Allow me to be the first to call you brother."

Porthos' mouth barely quirked in response, but his eyes lit with warmth and shared enthusiasm.

Aramis was sure of it now. He and Porthos would be brothers, perhaps they always had been. They just hadn't known it yet.

* * *

 _Present Time  
_ _The Road to Paris_

* * *

Friendship had sparked so quickly between them that it had been as if they had known each other all their lives. It had been easy and natural. It had been the only thing to save him after Savoy.

His very own strike of lightning.

Aramis found himself smiling as he continued his lonely trek.

But had he not then been struck _twice_?

If anything could be said about how he met Athos, well properly met him, it was that it had been sudden and quite unexpected. As much like lightning in its own way as meeting Porthos had been.

* * *

 _May 1625  
_ _Unknown Location_

* * *

Aramis looked across the staircase that led up to the closed door of their current prison, meeting Porthos' eyes. Silently, they both turned their gazes to the door when the sound of a key in the lock reached them.

Slowly the door creaked open. A large man, one Aramis was fairly certain had been involved in their capture, stood there. But after a tense moment, he wobbled forward and fell face first down the stone stairs. Aramis stared down at the body then looked up at Porthos with a bewildered arch to his brow.

As one, they looked to the door.

There stood a man with noble bearing and an elegant sword in his hand. He stared back at them with icy, intelligent blue eyes and a vaguely sardonic quirk to his brow.

Aramis felt his head tilt slightly to the side as he studied the newcomer. He was familiar, vaguely. They had met before, Aramis was certain of it. If only he could remember _where_. The sword especially seemed so familiar.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Porthos demanded suddenly.

The stranger glanced back and forth between them.

"My name is Athos."

The man inclined his head a bit in greeting and Aramis grinned at the simplicity of the response. It answered Porthos' demand without really answering anything. But at least now they had a name to tie to their… _rescuer_?

Athos confirmed Aramis' suspicion a moment later. "If you gentlemen would follow me, I have come to rescue you."

* * *

 _Present Time  
_ _The Road to Paris_

* * *

Athos had come from nowhere that day and become one of them. He had not been a Musketeer yet, that would come later, but he had been a man driven by honor. He had known nothing of them other than that they were in danger and had acted accordingly.

An action showing the heart of a Musketeer if ever Aramis had seen it.

Athos, despite whatever darkness lay in his past, had always lived and acted with outstanding integrity.

Some would say a man struck twice by lightning was unlucky. But Aramis realized now that he was perhaps the luckiest man of all. How many could claim two such men not only as friends, but as _brothers_?

"Aramis!" the familiar deep bellow had Aramis stopping in his tracks, head whipping up in surprise, which might not have been the best idea given his head injury. He blinked several times to clear the wavering in his vision and swallowed down the nausea that threatened to return.

And there they were. His two strikes of lightning, riding towards him through the rain.

Of course they had come looking for him. Whatever bond the three of them shared was too strong for them to have done anything else.

They were both off their horses and in front of him a few moments later. Porthos took him by the arms and looked him over with frantic eyes.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded roughly.

Aramis could only grimace and pry Porthos' hand off his wounded arm.

"We saw your horse," Athos put in mildly. "He ran past us too quickly to try and stop him. We feared the worst."

"Nothing so dire as you were imagining," Aramis replied with a tight smile. "And no wounds that won't mend."

"And what wounds are there?" Porthos pressed relentlessly.

But Aramis held up a hand to quiet him.

"First, I owe you both an apology for how I behaved. I have no excuse but to explain that today is…"

"We know," Porthos interrupted gently before exchanging a knowing look with Athos. "And you can save your apology unless you'll accept one from us in return."

Aramis frowned.

"What on earth would either of you need to apologize for?"

"No more or less than what you think you owe us," Athos replied.

"So let's just leave it for now, yeah?" Porthos decided. "Now about those injuries?"

Aramis sighed, letting it go for now. He would try again when their worry was abated.

"I hit my head," Aramis admitted. A strong hand latched onto his jaw and turned his face sideways to make the gash above his brow easily visible to both of his brothers. Aramis rolled his eyes and twisted his chin free. "But suffered no lasting damage," he added firmly. "My shoulder, though, needs to be set."

Porthos and Athos both looked to his oddly resting shoulder.

Porthos grimaced.

"Same one," he realized, giving Aramis a sympathetic glance.

Aramis, oddly, found himself smiling at the memory of the first time, not too long ago, when Porthos had needed to set a dislocated shoulder for him.

"At least you know what to do," Aramis comforted when Porthos looked a little green at the memory.

"Can it wait until we find shelter?" Athos asked seriously.

Aramis glanced up at the sky.

"It's waited this long," he allowed.

"Good, there's a farm not far from here and their barn will be dry," Athos decided.

"He's been out in this rain so long he's soaked through," Porthos added as he ushered Aramis towards his waiting horse.

"Perhaps we can request assistance from the owner of the farm," Athos suggested. He held Aramis' uninjured arm as Porthos mounted, and then, without either of them asking his permission or assistance, the two of them levered Aramis up behind the larger Musketeer.

"Maybe we should go back to Paris," Porthos worried. "You know how Aramis is with head wounds."

"I'm right here, you know," Aramis put in with a chuckle. "And I'm fine."

"Even our short history has proven you can't be trusted to decide such things for yourself," Athos countered easily. "The barn or Paris?" He directed the question at Porthos.

Aramis just shook his head and smiled as his two brothers debated the merits of both options even as they turned the horses back the way they had come.

Strikes of lightning?

More like two mother hens.

But they were his and he was a luckier man for it.

* * *

 _End of Like Lightning_

 _There you go! Kind of angsty, kind of whumpy, with a little bit of bromancy fluff mixed in ;) all the ingredients you need for a fun one-shot! I hope they came together agreeably for you! I'm going to try and get May's challenge done early because my baby boy could literally come at any time at this point haha. And unless he's a super easy baby I doubt I'll have the energy to write much after he's born. We shall see!_

 _Drop me a line to let me know what you thought of this little ficlet and if you feel so inclined, head over to the challenge forum and read all the entries and cast a vote for your favorites!_

 _Later 'gators!_


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